Whistling in the Dark
by sbgrrl
Summary: Spoils to 5.06. Gen, could be pre-slash if the reader wants it to be. Re-uploaded because I couldn't figure out how to fix something. Summary: Danny's trapped, and he's just trying to hang on until help comes.


**With apologies to William Faulkner and for misspelling the title at first - doesn't instill much confidence, I know!  
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_Whistling in the Dark_

"No," Danny choked out, barely a whisper escaping past his tight throat.

It wasn't real.

He couldn't accept what was right in front of his face, wouldn't. It was too … unreal. It wasn't real. He closed his eyes tightly, tried to not expel his lungs in his unadulterated panic, breathing so hard he might be able to wake the dead, dead, oh, ishit/i and then he really lost it. He felt himself slipping into a full-blown anxiety attack, and, really, who could blame him, after…

It wasn't real, it wasn't happening. It wasn't real.

He used that as a mantra, as if repeating it over and over would make it true. He continued to shake with complete disbelief, horror, as the world around him began to take some kind of indistinct shape. The edges were fuzzy. He still couldn't quite wrap his brain around any of it, thought he would lose it again if he did. He refused to believe it was anything but an illusion, maybe a dream. He pinched himself. That was supposed to work. He couldn't even feel it, so that meant it wasn't real. He wanted for it to all be a figment, so for several minutes (hours, days, a week) he retreated into a mental huddle. He had to. If he wanted to survive this, it could not really be happening. That was his truth. Some things were simply not survivable, and this was absolutely one of them.

The air felt dank, filled with the awful scent of his own desperation, and he curled further in on himself out of pure self-preservation. It took him some time, after those first minutes (weeks, months, a year) of the worst panic and i_nonono_/i had dimmed into something dull and listless, to realize he was alone. Utterly, completely alone in his misery. It was better that way, truly. He wouldn't wish this on anyone, but at the same time he would give his left nut for McGarrett to be there with him, a ridiculous and implausible light in the midst of so much dark. Maybe he'd stand a shot if Steve were … but, no.

He couldn't wish for Steve. Steve couldn't. He _couldn't_, and even if he somehow could, someone had to be Out There, looking for him. Finding him and making it all better. There was no one like Steve for the job. Steve was erratic and reckless, rash and aggravating, and he was also the second steadiest presence in his life. The first, Grace, Gracie, no, she couldn't help him here, so it was up to Steve.

Steve would help him find his way out of this, and he would do it before it was too late. There was no other choice. If this was really happening, then Steve would be there for him. Danny willed himself to keep the worst of his dread at bay. He began thinking out the lineup to the 86 Mets as he listened with dull ears to the faint noises around him, terrified if he said it aloud that he'd use up what precious little oxygen there was. A repetitive, metallic tick, like an old car's engine chattering on after it had been shut off. His own harsh breaths, ragged and almost uncontrolled even now after he'd tried to calm himself. He heard each exhalation punctuated by primal sounds of pain and grief and fear, an audible representation of all that was welling up inside.

_Breathe, breathe, keep breathing._

That was all he needed to do. Soon, those words filled in the gaps of the various Mets teams. _Breathe, keep breathing._ Oddly, this new refrain of his almost sounded like it was being said in Steve's voice, like he was there, whispering encouragement. Danny took that the only way he could, on some level knowing his subconscious mind, god help it, knew he needed Steve there and so Steve was in all the ways that mattered. If he tried hard enough, he swore he could feel Steve's hands on his shoulders, keeping him upright. In a more stable moment, he would think how it was hysterical, it really was, this codependent thing he had going on with his partner. He was so wrapped up in it, even his internal ramblings involved the guy.

Well, he reconsidered after a minute, maybe it was just dependent. He was on a one-way street. Steve was fine, he was always fine no matter what. Steve wasn't a giant mess despite how many fucked up things had happened and Danny, he was gibbering wreck and actually alone, so alone, everywhere but in his own head. He wanted so much more than imagined company, but he didn't know how to get there. He couldn't. He was stuck.

The walls, they were too close. Everything was too close and none of it was real.

He shifted, restless but limited in where he could go. The unnecessary reminder of his confinement set off another bout of panic, the rush of blood in his ears loud as a waterfall. Trapped. Alone. Danny strained to hear his internal Steve-voice, couldn't. It was gone as suddenly as it had come. Steve was gone and it was just him. Always alone, in the end. He wanted to push against the walls, make them expand, but they were immovable. The only thing was, every time he closed his eyes for a second, when he opened them again the walls were closer and the space darker. He couldn't breathe, _breathe, keep breathing._

The loop he was in, he couldn't get out. He didn't know what was real. Nothing. Everything. He didn't know who was on second and he should, he really should have all of this down. He should, but he didn't know how. Maybe, maybe it was that he didn't know exactly where he was. The specifics wouldn't help, though. He knew they wouldn't. That he was alone in the inky black unknown was all there was.

Danny just wanted. He didn't know. Something. He need someone to tell him this couldn't possibly be happening. It was too much. How much was one person supposed to be able to take? Steve would set him straight, if only he were there. Danny closed his eyes and he wasn't where he had been. Everything was different. He blinked again, and it was the same. Different, same. In the dark, all alone, there was no distinction.

It wasn't real, it wasn't happening. Breathe, breathe, keep breathing.

**H50H50H50**

He couldn't see. There was nothing but a virtual ocean of fiery red in front of him. It made him gasp and heave and he couldn't breathe again. He tried, it had worked before, but it wasn't anymore. He felt spent from his latest fit, drenched in sweat and who knew what else. Filth. Fault. Fury.

After a traumatic experience once (Grace, the original one), a police counselor had told him during a mandated session how important it was to acknowledge his feelings, all of them, and if possible, with some rationality. In sensible terms, he was very _angry_ about what had happened here. In reality, he was fucking pissed beyond reason. He'd finally given up the idea that it was all the result of his overactive imagination, knew it was real. It was happening, had happened, whatever. Danny was as trapped as ever, and he was mad as shit. About anything and everything, he had only fleeting focus, but no. He was angry about _it_, the darkness that hung around him like a weighted, perpetual cloak, and the thing that had created it in the first place. He couldn't shake it, wasn't sure he deserved to be free anymore.

It wasn't fair or right, how this had happened. The worst thing, though, was his inability to change it. He couldn't turn back the clock, and even if he could, he had no idea if he'd do anything differently than he had. He might still end up where he was no matter what choices he made, no matter how many times he got to do it over, alone and irate about it. The powerlessness ate at him as much as anything. He spent most of the time he wasn't devoting to keeping himself from flying apart in blind, consuming panic thinking about how his own damn choices had led to this. As much as he wanted to point the finger at anyone else, ultimately it was him. He'd done this and now he would die knowing that.

He thought he felt a touch, warm and firm, on his right forearm. Gentle and out of place in the middle of his own wrathful mood. He blinked a few times, eyes dry and burning with fatigue and fear.

He squinted at the knuckles of his hand, a bit confused at how swollen they looked. It looked like it should hurt. It looked like he should remember precisely what he'd done to end up with those injuries, but he only had a vague sense of it. The amount of energy he'd expended punching and bruising at, what? Nothing. It should hurt a lot more than it did, but there was no pain. Not the physically gratifying kind that he expected, anyway. Danny's hand trembled and he curled it into a fist. There was nowhere for him to go, he knew this, and that angered him almost as much as his own culpability. He raged, his mind blanked for a few minutes, not for the first time and not for the last.

_It's okay. It's going to be okay. Promise._

Hah, Danny thought, his delusional mental voice still sounded like Steve, as calm and rational as that fucking idiot psychologist had instructed him to be all those years ago when the world was spinning out of control and no one in the entire country was able to get their feet on solid ground. It figured. He couldn't even engage in a little justifiable indignation without Steve's non-presence to take over. A burst of whitehot rage gave him another bout of nervous, charged energy, and he used it to strike, hard, at whatever was closest. He couldn't see even if he were looking, just lashed out with everything he had. If he hurt like this, he wanted someone else to as well, and his real target, well, his real target was unavailable right now and forever and ever and, fuck, fuck, gone _forever_. He collapsed into himself again.

Goddamn stupid fucking fuck.

"I hate you," Danny said, and he broke into a sob, choked on it, his voice muffled by this steady, oppressive wall in front of him. "I hate you so much, you asshole."

And he wasn't sure who he was even talking to anymore. Himself more than anyone else on his hit list, perhaps. He should have been better, smarter. He shouldn't have let this happen. He hated the hot tears he felt welling in his eyes, resented that his emotions had sunken to the new low of tears as an outlet. He couldn't breathe, again, and shitshitshit, he was using all of the air. Air was as limited as life, precious. This wasn't fair. It wasn't supposed to be like this, and if he'd just not been such a fool. If he hadn't let his … Jesus, the one person he really wanted to pound into the dirt was already there.

Rational. He had to be rational with this, put all of that anger in boxes. It worked for other people (Steve). It wasn't working for him. He couldn't stop the hate and bile. How could his boxes have no sides and yet still keep him so locked in?

**H50H50H50**

Someone had to do something. If Steve was Out There looking for him, why hadn't he come? Why hadn't he fixed this? Danny liked to tease the guy about being imbued with some kind of superhuman qualities, but somewhere in his addled brains he thought if anyone could repair the damage done, it was Steve. He wanted to weep at the shattering of his own carefully constructed image of his partner. Because if Steve hadn't fixed anything, it was because he couldn't and Danny couldn't really expect differently from anyone else. Not the rest of the team, not Gracie's sunshine smile, not his mom and dad. But Steve, he'd thought, maybe. Just maybe, and maybe was better than no.

"Please," he said.

No one answered. No one ever did. Even if someone had this time, it wouldn't do any good. The big part of the problem was the thing he needed fixing wasn't fixable. On some level, he got that. He truly did. It buzzed in the back of his mind like a hive of far-off bees, something better kept at a safe distance as far as he was concerned. No, Danny wasn't ready to accept it. No. No, no. If he gave in, then it was all over. He was doomed. He wanted so much not to be that guy, the one who talked himself into self-fulfilling prophesies. He had been working on it. He still was, frantic to find a way to make this not be reality. There had to be one. He would get on his knees and beg if it meant that his ordeal could be over. He just wanted it over.

He took several deep breaths, surprised there was still enough air to make it into his lungs. He was also surprised that all of a sudden instead of the fetid scent of his own desperation, he could smell lilies. Their scent had always been cloying, overpowering to him and now, imagined or real, he wrinkled his nose at the smell. The flowers reminded him of his childhood, Easter and his grandmother's wake, a dim, somber room filled with adults who themselves already smelled of death. He sniffed, an automatic reaction, looking for a chaser of incense. All he smelled was that sickening floral perfume. Matt had dated a girl named Lily for a second or two in high school, Danny remembered. What a random coincidence. God, Matt. Matty. The fragrance of the flowers settled at the back of his throat, made him long for something to wash it away. Water. No, bourbon.

If he could just figure out a way to go back in time, he thought. He'd had these ideas before, but honestly. There had to be a scientist somewhere who was close to solving time travel, someone who would understand why he needed it so much. He couldn't rely on that, though. Science was slow. He needed magic. He almost chuckled to himself, managed to quell the urge. Maybe, though, maybe if just this once he allowed for the possibility of a higher power and maybe if he truly believed in it there would be a miracle. Some kind of cosmic signing bonus that would erase all of this and put him back on solid ground. Happy as he could be, whole and free from this murky tomb.

It wasn't just for him that he wanted to strike a deal, make it all better. No, there were so many others who'd benefit. His parents. Grace. Steve, Steve, God, he wanted Steve to help him _right now_. Danny knew he should feel embarrassed at needing someone so badly that he'd grovel, but he would. He would get on his knees right now if that was what it would take. He'd give anything, he really would, to just go back and say different words. Do different things. Try, at least, to be a better person, a better father, son, brother and do the right thing when it mattered the most. He knew now what he should have done to keep him from this place. It would work, if only he could find a way to get back to that defining moment.

_You going to shoot me, Danny?_

He should have. He should have. The muffled sobs he heard didn't sound like his own, but they had to be. He was still so, so alone. He wanted to stop the tears from falling, did not want to give his grief one single iota of validity, but he couldn't anymore. No one was there to hear or see, he knew that.

"Please," he murmured, turning his face upward as best he could. "Please, just someone do something to make this right, please."

There was no answer, only the mingled aroma of lilies and dirt and the echo of his own sobs.

**H50H50H50**

He was pretty sure that there'd been light at some point.

It was hard for him to remember with any clarity now, yet, yes, he felt almost sure there had been a glimmer. A proverbial light at the end of the tunnel. Then again, maybe he merely wanted to believe it so much his mind was inventing things again, tricking him, implanting false memories. He supposed that wouldn't be outside the realm of possibility. His need to have the light have been real, that was all Steve's fault. Before his partner's "maybe you oughta try being positive" speech after they'd both faced and survived what Danny had considered certain death, Danny had been very content believing the worst was going to happen and look. Look, he was right. He was always proven right on that point. Surviving a cave-in, that had been because Steve was there with him. A fluke. Steve's luck, not his. And here, here he was alone and the light at the beginning hadn't been real. It couldn't have been. He was starting to think nothing then had been real after all, except maybe the dark.

Not that it mattered anymore anyway. There was only that darkness, thick and so invasive now it felt like he had absorbed it into himself. He'd lost all sense of time and direction. Most of the time, he was sure he was upright, but then most the time he was also positive he was curled in a ball, and both sensations went on forever and happened in a blink. Funny thing was it all felt exactly the same to him. It didn't matter. There was a certain consistency to everything when there was only blackness inside and out. He'd felt that depressive sameness before, only now he couldn't bring himself to whistle in the dark; he knew what the outcome was going to be and was prepared for it.

Danny realized that he was, in fact, somewhat calm. That was a bit of a change, but if there was such a thing as fate, he was resigned to it now. He no longer cared if rescue came _(Stevestevesteve)_, or at least not enough to make much of an impact one way or another.

In dark places, so too followed his thoughts. Danny began to wonder about things better left unconsidered. Though they were worlds apart, he found himself comparing his own prison to Matty's. He couldn't seem to help it. He thought about his brother, what his last moments had been like. Had he been alive when Reyes shoved him in that barrel? Did he feel suffocated like Danny did now, slowly succumbing to his fate? He pictured his brother folded into that pitch black space far too small for his large frame, already beginning to decompose while he was still taking his final breaths. Turning into that unrecognizable, foul lump of liquefied flesh and bone and Jesus, Jesus, he should never have seen his baby brother that way.

Danny felt the hot burn of vomit at the back of his throat, swallowed it down. He knew Matty hadn't been alive when he was broken in half and shoved in that barrel, but what if? It was too horrible, he wanted to stop thinking about it. There hadn't been any holes in that oil drum. Danny felt like he had no oxygen at the moment, but Matty really and truly hadn't. He had stewed in there, putrefying to the point the only way to identify him was dental records. Danny thought at the very least someone should have made some holes for air to get in. Just in case. Then again, that would have prolonged Matty's agony just like his was being dragged out. Better for Matt to have been a stinking fish in a barrel, shot, one shot, a bullet to the head. He snuffled out a laugh. He should be so fortunate.

"My brother is a fish," Danny muttered to anyone who might be listening. Maybe they'd get it, maybe they wouldn't.

Too many barrels, that was the issue. Danny might have been fine, but it all came back to barrels. And fishing. Should have gone fishing when he had the chance, except if his brother was a fish, then he might have been the one to… oh, right. He already did that. What he needed was a drink to help him stop thinking and feeling. Danny was tired of feeling so much all the time. It was exhausting, it really was.

"I think you've had enough, Danny."

Damn, his Steve voice was getting loud. After so much time in the dark and by himself, he would have expected it to fade. Danny thought that if his partner could shout in his ear like that, he should be able to come collect him from this place. He jumped when a firm hand grasped his elbow. He swung clumsily, expecting to hit a wall and instead almost fell flat on his face. Huh. He scrunched his eyes, experienced a rapid shift and noticed he was not, in fact, alone.

"What're you doing here?" Danny asked, confused, because there was barely room for one in this hellhole prison whatever he was stuck in.

"They called me," Steve said, with a funny look on his face.

_That_ look, the same Steve had used before. In that place with the barrels. Wait. Danny wasn't sure where he was, where he had been. Where he thought he'd been. But he did remember the money and the containers used for transporting it, and he remembered there were no breathing holes in them. His head spun and after a few sluggish moments it clicked. Oh. Steve was here. Oh, finally.

"Oh, you came for me. It took you so long to get here." Danny liked the feel of Steve's hand on his elbow. It felt real. It felt not quite so dark anymore.

"I'm sorry it did, Danny." Steve shifted his hand to grasp Danny's triceps, gave him a gentle squeeze. "I should have seen this sooner."

Danny wanted to cry. He'd done too much crying already and not enough (be strong, Danny, be strong for family), but now all he had was this hollowness inside and thoughts of his brother's rotting corpse.

"My brother is dead, Steven," Danny said.

"I know," Steve said softly.

**H50H50H50**

There were good days and bad days. It was all a bit cliché, actually. One day he'd be fine, the next he would dread coming to work – which was ironically one of the only things that was a big enough distraction for him, apart from Grace. The other big enough distraction was Steve, the subtle shift of their relationship grounding him more often than not. But still, some days got to him. Even minute to minute could be a rollercoaster. It would hit him at odd times, the grief so strong it was like he was all alone even when surrounded by friends. He knew he would eventually feel more connected to the world again. For the moment, it was enough that he was able to do his job and care for his child and eke out at least a semblance of living. It wasn't that his was a singular experience. He worked with people who'd suffered loss deeper than his; his thoughts went immediately to Chin, then Steve.

Life was about choices. Danny struggled to come to terms with some of his, still wished daily that he'd been strong enough to shoot his brother in the leg, was still disturbingly okay with shooting an unarmed man in the head, but he also knew the only choices he had any control of now were the ones he had yet to make. He could spend the rest of his lifetime wishing he could change the past, or he could choose to accept responsibility and to live with his earlier choices.

Danny sat on the low wall, stared across the cityscape. Today was one of the mostly bad days, but he was determined to find some good in it as well. This overlook had always had special meaning, but now it had become a refuge. He wouldn't ever stay if there were others there enjoying the spectacular view, but quiet times like this … he needed the solitude. He also knew it wouldn't last. Steve had become his shadow. Remembering how alone he'd felt before, Danny didn't have it in him to protest his partner's hovering too much.

It was on this day thirty-four years ago that one Matthew Edward Williams had entered the world, a squalling, red-faced tiny thing. This was Danny's day to celebrate and mourn that colossal screw-up of a beautiful baby brother, and though he wouldn't turn Steve away if he disregarded the text Danny had dutifully sent and showed up (Steve had become perhaps too vital to Danny's existence), he really hoped his partner respected his boundaries. It was too soon to share this day with anyone else, even his parents, who didn't, couldn't ever, know all of the details.

He sat for a long time, remembering all of the good things about Matty. Happy memories to drown out the worst of the worst. Matty's first birthday, when he'd gotten his first taste of cake and ended up with more of it on his face than in his mouth. Handcuffing his annoying little brother to the monkey cage at the zoo. The night thirteen-year-old Matt came to him to breathlessly report achieving second base. Innocent times, sweet memories to hold onto. Lightness to hold off the dark.

After an hour (a day, a week), Danny heard the crunch of vehicle tires pulling in behind him. It wasn't the truck, wasn't Steve, but he knew he had spent enough time in the past by how much closer the sun was to the horizon. He slid off the wall, pulled his phone out and saw five texts from Steve, three from Grace. Looked like it was the Rainbow for dinner, majority vote already received. He smiled and shot off a quick message back to Steve. When he got to the car, he glanced again toward the ocean. As if on the wind, he heard Matty's voice.

_This ends one of two ways, big brother. You either shoot me, or you say good-bye._

Danny hadn't managed to do the first when he should have, but he was getting closer to accomplishing the second and was working on living with that. It was all he could do.

"I miss you so much, Matty," Danny murmured.


End file.
